


Three is Family

by HallsofStone2941



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, mild depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwarf siblings usually come in threes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three is Family

Bifur, son of Bafur

Bifur was a wee dwarfling of three when he lost his mother, father, and two older siblings to the fire and desolation that Smaug wrought in the fall of Erebor. Orphaned, he was raised by his aunt and uncle, Bridi and Bambir. Barely able to remember his own family, Bifur grew up calling them his Ma and Da, though from the beginning they told him his true heritage. Never did he feel left out or unloved.

So when his cousins, Bofur and Bombur, were born, fifteen years apart, he vowed to protect them just as he knew his older siblings had protected him – died for him – to escape the Lonely Mountain. The brothers Ur always looked to their older cousin as a brother, as well, and Bridi and Bambir never had another child, believing Bifur to equal their third.

When Bofur is a mere forty, and Bombur twenty-five, it is Bifur that stands behind the door with his spear, ready to attack any of the Orcs that have raided their town. And it is no surprise when, once one does break through, Bifur throws himself in front of the axe meant for his little cousins. They are his family, after all.

 

Drili, daughter of Dis

At least, that is what their mother told them. Fili and Kili never did get to meet their little sister; she never became more than a thought in Dis’ head.

It ran in the family, Dis used to say. Thorin was the first dwarf born of Thrain and his wife; then Frerin, and afterwards, Dis. Fili was born, then Kili, and Dis said their final child would be a girl: Drili, she would be called. The youngest heirs of Durin were always excited when they thought about a baby sister, and would spend entire afternoons acting out the games they would play once she was born, or discuss what she would look like (“Uncle Towin”, Kili always insisted).

But assumption is a dangerous thing, and Thorin returned one day, alone, and explained that he and Kimil, Dis’ husband, were caught unawares by a wandering band of Orcs. He did not finish the story; the grief in his eyes, and the horrified understanding in his sister’s, was enough. Fili was just old enough to realize what happened, though try as he might, he could not get Kili to understand. For decades, people would watch with concern and mild confusion whenever they saw the young, dark-haired prince wandering through the marketplace, pointing this and that out to the space beside him, resolutely named “Drili”.

 

Frerin, son of Thrain

Thorin remembers very clearly the Battle of Azanulbizar: the thousands of his people, dying; the head of his grandfather, bouncing and rolling towards him with blank eyes; his own father, disappearing and leaving Thorin, at the age of fifty-three, to lead his people to victory. He had allowed adrenaline to turn his grief into rage, and his rage into action. He cut off the Pale Orc’s arm and rallied his warriors to drive back the enemy. Clearly does he remember standing on a slight hill, overlooking the scene of battle: a beacon of hope and leadership for his grieving kinsmen.

That was when he saw it. A flash of gold: so rare, so uncommon, amongst a people tossed out of their home by the greed of a dragon. It was a gold wholly unusual to be found in the hair of his kind; indeed, Thorin himself would not see this precise color for another sixty years. It was unmistakable, and he ran towards it, his pride and lineage forgotten.

Beneath two Orcs lay the middle of the three children of Thrain. Frerin was pinned; his eyes wide in his last moments of surprise, for it was by sheer luck the ugly creature had stabbed him. The first Orc had fallen on the second prince’s sword, catching him off balance; the second Orc had impaled itself on the weapon sticking from the back of its kin. By mere chance, or perhaps a desperate hope, the second Orc’s sword had driven through the body of the first to cut straight to the prince’s heart.

Thorin’s grief carried across the battlefield. For a week, he was not a prince, or a dwarf, but a grieving brother. For more than a century, he was fiercely protective of any dwarfling, for that was what Frerin was. Never did he allow a growing dwarrow to undertake a task Thorin believed him incapable of. By the barest thread had he allowed his sister’s-sons to accompany him on the quest, but he had stood firmly by Gloin when Gimli expressed his desire to go. The young dwarf was not of age, and, disappointed as he might have been, Thorin refused to allow that to weigh on his conscience, remembering all too well golden hair and unseeing eyes. The gratefulness in Gloin’s expression only solidified his resolution.

 

Gloin and Oin

Gloin was born a big baby, even by dwarf standards. Oin remembers waiting impatiently outside his mother’s birthing room, waiting for the moment he would be able to see his new sibling. Finally, he was allowed in, but before he could even peek at the bundle in his father’s arms, his mother let out a horrible wail. Oin was ushered out of the room, a warm, heavy bundle held in his hands. His father’s eyes were worried, panicked even; telling his eldest son not to let go of his brother, Oin’s father rushes back into the room. Oin makes his way to the nursery, because for months he has been trained how to treat the newborn. Gloin cries out, and Oin knows he cannot give his brother the food he desires, so he sits in the rocking chair and sings the tune for a Dwarfish lullaby. He feels big and powerful holding his baby brother, and is glad he can get these few moments alone.

His mother survives, though Oin is informed she will never be able to have another child. He is sad, not for himself, but for Gloin, who will never know the feeling of holding his baby brother in his arms. The In brothers become closer than most dwarf siblings, and when little Gimli is born, if Oin treats him more like a much younger brother than a nephew, his brother Gloin does not say a word.

 

Falin, son of Fundin

Upon seeing the Lin brothers, few ever assume they are, in fact, related. There is very little resemblance, and the age gap between the two is unusually large even for Dwarves. Sometimes, people assume Balin is Dwalin’s father, or perhaps his uncle. Rarely do the two correct the assumption.

The reason they do not offer the truth is because of the painful past that goes along with it. Once, many decades ago, Balin and Dwalin had another brother, an in between, who bridged the gap between their respective ages: Falin, son of Fundin.

Thorin and the Lin brothers are close friends for a reason. They share more than time and memories of Erebor. They lost the same thing that fateful day in Moria.

Dwalin remembers the rush of battle, the feel of his hammer striking down foes, the sight, out of the corner of his eye, of a Mohawk similar to his swinging with every swipe of a blade. Balin, ever the responsible one, had rolled his eyes when his younger brothers (thicker than thieves, they were) insisted on identical hairstyles.

It was not until the last of the Orcs were driven back into Moria that Dwalin realized he could not see Falin walking amongst the fallen corpses. When he went to Balin and saw his brother’s tearstained face, he almost did not dare to look down. He could feel his own grief welling, but he and his remaining brother had little time to do more than touch foreheads, for the wail of sorrow that came from their prince could be heard in the eerie silence that follows battle. For the time being, Dwalin and his brother had to be strong for the Prince of Erebor. When they finally could, they grieved for a month. For the rest of their lives, the Lin brothers would wear their hair unbraided and unadorned, just as their brother preferred.

Dwalin loved his war hammer: the weight of it driving his force straight to his enemy, the sure grip in his hand, the feeling of strength that accompanied every blow. His elder brother, however, preferred dual weapons: dual swords, dual axes, even, at the worst of times, dual daggers. It was a preference Dwalin teased him about mercilessly – unable to keep his own balance without using two weapons as crutches, he would say to Falin. But when little Fili expressed a desire to learn how to wield twin swords, Dwalin choked back the lump in his throat and taught him, and when two axes, named Grasper and Keeper, attached themselves to the back of the great warrior, and a set of knuckle-dusters found a permanent home of the back of his hands, Balin said nothing but gave his younger brother a broken smile and a hand on his shoulder.

 

Bilbo Baggins and the Brothers Ri

“I-I’m sorry,” Bilbo stuttered, “I didn’t mean to pry”. The conversation around the fire at Beorn’s had started when Bilbo asked about the similar sounding names amongst the company, leading to his curiosity about the brother’s Ur sharing the same last syllable though Bifur was cousin to the other two. “It’s quite alright, Master Baggins,” Balin said, his eyes still slightly haunted from the retellings. “Your curiosity cannot be blamed.” The Company fell silent for a few moments after this, each member stewing in the solemn atmosphere that had settled over the less-than-cheerful histories.

“Sometimes I wonder if we’re next,” Dori says suddenly. “Everyone else has lost someone; I worry that we three ought to expect the same.” He glances at his brothers, as if ensuring they are still there. Ori shuffles closer, pressing against the eldest Ri, and even Nori, unusual to displays of affection, surreptitiously scoots nearer to the other two.

“So Hobbits don’t have a set number of children?” Fili asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Not really, no. Most families have anywhere from five to fifteen children—” the Dwarves gasp at the thought of so many—“and I have never heard of any Hobbit not having at least one brother or sister. And yes, before you ask, Kili,” for the young Dwarf had opened his mouth, “I have a sister. Or, rather, I did.”

Bilbo falls silent; he seems to be collecting his thoughts, deciding on what words he will use, and it is a tribute to his newfound respect amongst the Dwarves that none interrupt him or start a conversation anew. Finally, the Hobbit speaks:

“Foxglove Baggins, her name was. She was seven years my junior. Mother and Father would have had more, but they had difficulty with both Fox and I. We were ‘miracles’, occurring just when they had given up hope for ever having a child, or children.” He sits silently and puffs in his pipe before speaking again. “I was thirty when the Fell Winter hit – do you remember it? Well, Fox was twenty-three. Many Hobbits lost their lives that winter, in ways we never even dreamed could happen in the Shire. There was sickness, yes, and starvation, for the families that were ill-prepared: the worst way for a Hobbit to go, many believe.

“But worse, if you can believe, came from outside the Shire. The Brandywine River froze, you see – one of our natural borders, turned against us. Wolves came, seeking weak, defenseless Hobbits, daring to find food wherever they could.

“I lost the three most important people in my life that winter. We were travelling to Tuckburough – it had more food, and better protection; the families that dared to made their way there. The wolves found us, maybe two-thirds of the way. Father fell first; Mother afterward. We, Fox and I, were taught by Mother a little sword-fighting – yes, I know, hard to believe – and managed to drive them off and carry them – Mum and Da, that is – to the Thain’s smial.

“I think, what kept me from shattering to pieces completely, was that I needed to take care of Fox. She was older than Fili and Kili, at least maturity-wise,” he glances at the two princes, “she knew exactly what had happened, had watched it with her own eyes, and knew they weren’t coming back. I did too, of course, but I was focused on keeping her alive.” Now Bilbo’s voice grows quieter, and Oin has to lean in to hear him.

“It was a losing battle, but one I refused to give up fighting. She never slept, she wouldn’t eat – it was a struggle just to get her to swallow water. She didn’t have what I had – someone to take care of, someone to keep on going for. I wasn’t enough, as much as I wished – still wish – I was.”

He sighs, staring at the fire. “She died a couple of weeks later. Starvation. She was already weak, it didn’t take long. It was horrible.” He laughs humorlessly. “For a people that hate violence and love food more than anything in the world, my family died in the worst ways imaginable. I have always surrounded myself with comforts, always kept my pantry stocked in preparation for the day that – however unlikely – may come when I cannot buy food when I wish. I have vowed to myself that, should another tragedy such as the Fell Winter strike, I would accept as many Hobbits into my home as can fit, and keep them alive and as well-fed as possible, so that they might not suffer the same fate my Fox did.

“And then – and then! – I run off with thirteen Dwarves, where any day I might die from Orcs or trolls, or stone giants, for Eru’s sake! When my meals are as meager, for a Hobbit at least, as they were when we rationed during that terrible winter. Facing my fears, I suppose, is what I’m doing.” Suddenly he turns to Thorin with a fire in his eyes that startles the Dwarves. “That’s why I saved you. That’s why I stood in between you and Azog. I promised myself, years ago, that I would never let someone die if I could stop it. That I would never let someone suffer the same fate my parents did as long as I have breath in my body.” His tirade over, Bilbo slumps back, still staring at the flames.

“And we will protect you, too,” Gloin rumbles from across the fire.

Bofur nods. “Aye, yer part o’ th’ Comp’ny now. Yer one of us – yer fam’ly.” The others nod their agreement.

“Ye’ve proven yerself, laddie.” Balin says, Dwalin nodding solemnly beside him. “Anytime you need help, any time at all, we’ll be there for you. Just as you have promised you will be there for us.”

“You can be our brother!” Kili suddenly shouts, excitement bubbling in his features. “We’ll call you Bili!”

“But our sibling’s name was supposed to be Drili!” Fili points out.

“Drili’s a girl’s name.”

"He sort of looks like a lass, lacking the beard and all,” Dwalin muses, ignoring Bilbo’s “hey!”.

"Well, Uncle, what do you think?” Fili asks, turning to Thorin.

Bilbo holds his breath. He and Thorin had developed a very tentative, delicate friendship after the scene of Carrock, but he did not know if it was enough to warrant Thorin’s approval of gaining a new ‘nephew’. The exiled Dwarf king looks at Bilbo, almost through him, the Hobbit thinks, assessing every trait and truth he knows about the small Hobbit.

A small smile, almost completely hidden by his beard, graces his lips.

“Bili sounds fine to me.”


End file.
